See, I’ve been going along on the phones for the past nine months, getting men off, and that steady stream of audio cock hypnotized me into thinking that I was only working that side of my resume, you know, the straight side. I’m a girl, they’re all boys, and that means straight. Truth be told, I was okay with that, because frankly, I felt like perhaps I was a little weak in that area and, as a PSO trying to be the best I can be, I could use some real practical experience in the verbalization of cock.

But when I began excavating my history and experiences, and sifting through even my current work for queer-relevant fragments that I could bring to the stage–so that I could even semi-legitimately make this stand-up set queer–I found instead big chunks of queer GOLD.

Let’s set aside the fact that, as someone who lived a dick-free existence from 1989 to 2001, I know more about eating pussy than most straight guys, and certainly most of the guys who call in wanting to talk about eating pussy, or about me eating pussy. It’s a relief to sit down to a bout of rug-munching, frankly: it’s an easy sound effect, much easier on my throat than pretending to choke on a monster cock. And when I get a chance to gently guide my caller on the finer points of eating pussy, I definitely feel that I am putting some positive points in the paying-it-forward column of sex education.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, a good chunk of the stuff that I narrate is male-on-male action. The infamous BBC constitutes a high percentage of that work, obviously, but dick-focused action–what I would call gay, in the context of paid phone sex–includes many other categories of calls: she-males on top, camping with the boy scout troop, cuckold action (especially any scene that involves the cuckold being the fluffer and/or cleanup boy). The fact that I’m a woman narrating these scenes doesn’t matter; what is being expressed, what is being fantasized, is homoerotic as hell.

And then there’s the gender-queer component. My sissy girls and panty boys remind me that there is a significant minority of dudes out there who might be feeling a little chafed by gender norms and expectations, and/or curious about at least some aspects of life and lust on the other side of the gender fence. For these callers, I get to be the voice of acceptance and surprise packages and cocksucker-red lipstick and color-coordinated satin lingerie. I love taking those calls; I mean, who doesn’t want to wear silky panties under your business suit? Briefs versus boxers is a false dichotomy! One’s choices in undergarments exist on a beautiful rainbow spectrum!

But conversation about the intersection of phone sex and queerness isn’t complete unless we include the underbelly, too. For most of my “queer” calls, I’m the voice of shame and degradation, at least occasionally. I end up making liberal use of epithets that I have spent most of my queer life avoiding: cocksucker, faggot, pansy. Most of my “queer” callers are wallowing in the dirtiness and taboo of their fantasies; if I don’t make them feel at least a little like shit for wanting it, I’m not doing my job.

Believe me, the dissonance between actually being queer and “doing” queer on the phones can be teeth-grinding. If nothing else, doing phone-queer all the time makes the REAL stuff look and feel that much better. I feel like I’m a waitress in a pie restaurant, talking to customers who have only eaten sugar-free, store-bought pie all their life. That’s what’s been marketed to them, and that’s what they want, and I have to go along with it, yum yum yum. But I know what a real, sticky-sweet, bourbon-laced, pecan pie tastes like, and gosh, I wish they did, too.